


Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)

by king_finn



Series: What A Wonderful World [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Chases, Curses, Established Relationship, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Magic, Near Death Experiences, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: He doesn’t know how long he’s been running – could be minutes, could be hours – but his legs are burning, lungs heaving, every noise around him drowned out by his own footsteps, his frantic gasping, and his heartbeat, loud in his ears.He still doesn’t know what happened, even now, even as he runs for his life from the man he loves most.Geralt comes back from a hunt not quite himself, and Jaskier is forced to run.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What A Wonderful World [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951405
Comments: 21
Kudos: 270
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 of Whumptober! Today's prompt is: On the run!
> 
> Title from Where Do You Go To (My Lovely), by Peter Sarstedt. (Though if I didn't have a 60's song title theme going on, I would've called it Love Run after the song by the Amazing Devil)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

A branch scratches his cheek, but he barely registers it. He’s already covered in scratches and bruises as it is already, a stab wound in his upper arm the most notable of his injuries, and he covers it with his hand as he runs, trying to get the incessant bleeding to stop.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been running – could be minutes, could be hours – but his legs are burning, lungs heaving, every noise around him drowned out by his own footsteps, his frantic gasping, and his heartbeat, loud in his ears.

He still doesn’t know what happened, even now, even as he runs for his life from the man he loves most.

Geralt had gone on a hunt – a simple one, just Drowners, his love had told him – and he’d returned a few hours later with a feral glint in his eyes and his fangs bared. Jaskier barely had time to ask if Geralt was alright, before his love had lunged at him, drawing the knife from his belt.

He’d seen the glint of the campfire on the steel, and had turned away quickly, the stab that had been aimed at his heart landing in his left arm instead.

He’d crawled back, heart hammering as Geralt had advanced on him once again. And then his love’s hands had closed around his throat.

Jaskier had clawed at them, at Geralt’s arms and wrists and, when that proved fruitless, eventually his neck and face – he’d noticed, in the back of his mind, as oxygen slowly ran out, that Geralt wasn’t wearing his medallion anymore. Instead, he was wearing a simple, leather necklace, a glowing crystal dangling from it.

 _Magic._ The word had flitted through his overwhelmed and panicked mind, as he’d gasped for air, desperately trying to tear the offending necklace away, hands weak and shaking. “G- Geralt,” he’d rasped. “ _Please.”_

Nothing had changed in Geralt’s eyes – he was still looking at Jaskier with pure, unadulterated contempt and _hatred,_ not a glint of mercy in that familiar amber. He’d been left with no choice.

He’d reached for the knife still sticking from his own arm, hoarsely screaming as he’d pulled it out, and he’d slashed with it, not sure what he was aiming for, his vision already nearly blacked out by then.

He’d heard Geralt grunt, and he’d felt the grip around his neck loosen, allowing him to take in a few breaths of cool night air. And then, he’d wrenched himself free, and he’d _run._

He slows to a halt, now, pressing his back against a broad tree, trying to catch his breath. He’s too loud, he knows, and he clasps a hand over his mouth in an effort to stifle the noise of his laboured breathing. Not that it’ll help for long – he’s travelled with Geralt long enough to know that he can hear heartbeats, especially ones that are loud and panicked.

Like Jaskier’s is right now.

Not to mention that even if Jaskier runs for days or even weeks on end, he can’t outrun Geralt – the Witcher will simply follow his scent and pounce on him when he’s distracted or exhausted.

There is no outrunning Geralt. He knows it. Still, that doesn’t stop him from pushing away from the tree again, breaking out into a light jog, frantically looking around to see if he can spot that familiar head of white hair anywhere.

He’s tired, he’s exhausted and sore and all he wants is to bury his face in Geralt’s chest, to feel his love’s arms around him, to hear him say that everything’s going to be alright. But he can’t have that right now, so he keeps running, keeps buying time. Time, to figure out what’s going on, what happened to Geralt, and how to make it stop.

He saw the necklace around his love’s neck, saw the glowing crystal hanging from it, so he assumes it’s something magical – maybe a curse, maybe a simple spell with a bad outcome. Maybe Geralt ran into a mage instead of the Drowners he was promised. Maybe he accidentally touched this necklace and was put under its curse.

Jaskier doesn’t know. All he knows is that getting that necklace off Geralt is his last hope. Either he manages to do that and everything goes back to normal, or…

Or he dies trying.

He tenses his muscles, balls his fists, readying himself to turn the light jog into a full run again, if only so he can maybe devise a plan and outrun Geralt just that little longer.

But he doesn’t get the chance to, every thought and movement abruptly yanked to a halt when a strong hand closes in his hair and pulls him back. He yelps, hands scrabbling against Geralt’s wrists, feet kicking in the dirt, as Geralt pulls him flush against his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going, my lovely, little lark?” Geralt rumbles against his back, the cold edge of a blade pressing against Jaskier’s throat. He shudders, both from the threat of dying at the hands of the person he loves most and from the unfamiliar nickname – most of the time, Geralt calls him ‘Jask’ or ‘Jaskier’, and if he’s feeling particularly sappy, he uses ‘love’. But never ‘my lovely, little lark’.

“Geralt,” he gasps. “What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”

Geralt snarls, and Jaskier’s head spins as he’s whirled around and pushed against the tree he was hiding behind just seconds ago, his love’s hand once again around his throat, the other holding a knife against his artery, a healing scratch along his cheek where Jaskier struck him with the knife, earlier. “Why? Because I’ve had enough of you.”

He frowns, trying to blink the tears away. “What?”

“You’re annoying, you’re loud, and all you do is get both of us into trouble. I’ve had to deal with you following me around for twenty years, bringing me nothing but bad luck. I’ve had enough of you.”

He knows it’s just the magic talking, knows Geralt would never say something like this – _wouldn’t he, though? –_ but he can’t help the sting he feels at those words. “But- I love you, and- and you love me.” He remembers every single time Geralt has told him that he loves him in vivid detail.

He remembers the first time, whispered into his skin when they reunited after the mountain. He remembers that one time by the fire in the middle of the woods, sweat cooling on their skin, an owl hooting in the distance. He remembers that time in a busy market when Jaskier had been fawning over a pretty winter cloak and Geralt had suddenly leaned in, whispered those words in his ear, and had bought him the cloak immediately afterwards.

He remembers those and so many more, every single time his heart sang out in his chest, every time he’d been reassured that Geralt loves him, that he hadn’t meant those words said on the mountain. Every single time he’d felt happier than he’d ever had before.

“You love me,” he whispers, black spots dancing in front of his vision.

Geralt sneers at him. “No, I don’t. I _tolerated_ you. But not any longer.”

Deep down, he knows that that’s not true, knows that none of this makes sense and that it’s the magic that’s making Geralt say this, but it still _hurts._ It still forces memories of that day on the mountain upon his mind. It still makes tears roll down his cheeks.

His blurry sight zeroes in on the green jewel hanging from Geralt’s neck, and a wave of anger washes over him. He has to get that damned thing away from his love, it’s his only hope.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” he whispers, before kicking his love in the groin as hard as he can.

Geralt groans and loosens his grip on Jaskier’s neck, allowing him to slip under his arm and start running. He doesn’t want to run, doesn’t want to leave his love behind in the thralls of that necklace, but he still has no plan, no way to overpower Geralt long enough to get that thing off him – he’s still only human, after all.

So, he runs. Runs to buy himself time, runs from what he knows is coming, runs until his lungs are numb.

Branches scratch his cheeks, nettles rip at his clothes. He doesn’t hear anything, besides his own beating heart and gasping breath, doesn’t register anything but what’s right in front of him. He jumps over a branch blocking his way, ignores the sharp pain of his flailing hand hitting a tree next to him, cringes when his knees crack as he hits the ground again, gasps when he forces himself to move forward again. He doesn’t give himself a rest, doesn’t stop to catch his breath, but keeps going, his mind racing along with his legs.

He can’t overpower Geralt with brute force, can’t hide somewhere and jump him from behind – Geralt would smell him, would hear his heartbeat and breathing – can’t lay a trap for his love – he doesn’t have the time.

He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to get that necklace off Geralt, so he keeps running, running, running. Keeps going, no matter how much everything hurts, no matter how much blood trickles from the wound in his arm, no matter how many black spots dance in front of his eyes.

And then, in the distance, he sees something. It has to be some clearing in the woods, the sunlight so bright and his eyes so adjusted to the dim forest, he doesn’t really see anything beyond the edge of it. But maybe there’s something there that he can use, maybe not all is lost.

But when he reaches the edge of it, his heart sinks to his knees. It’s the rocky shore of a lake, spanning far and wide, the glittering reflection of the sunlight on its surface nearly blinding him. He keeps running, doesn’t slow down, as his head whips from side to side, trying to figure out which way to go – left or right or, gods forbid, forwards, into the water.

He doesn’t get the chance to choose.

Something hits him between his shoulder blades, the impact making him fall forwards, scratching his hands on the rocks on the shore of the lake, whatever little breath he still had left in his lungs leaving him in a sharp gasp. He reaches forward, trying to crawl away as he hears footsteps behind him, but screams when whatever hit him in the back shifts, still embedded in him.

 _A knife._ There’s a knife sticking out between his shoulder blades, sharp pain thrumming through his body as he fruitlessly tries to escape his love.

The blade is yanked out and he cries out again, hot, bitter tears spiling down his cheeks. A distant _splash_ tells him the knife’s been thrown into the lake. With his last remaining strength, he turns around; if he’s going to die at the hands of the person he loves most, he’d rather be able to look him in the eye.

Geralt’s quick to straddle him, strong hands once again wrapping around Jaskier’s throat in a merciless grip, a sneer on his oh so familiar face.

Jaskier tries to claw at Geralt’s wrists, though he knows it won’t help. Nothing will, at this point. His vision blackens out, his hands going limp and falling on the rocks painfully, feet softly kicking out – his body’s last attempt to try to survive, to no avail.

“I…” He tries to gasp in air, but the crushing pressure on his throat doesn’t release, doesn’t give him a second of respite. “I love you,” he rasps against the blue sky above him. _Quite a poetic death,_ his deranged mind thinks, _at the hands of the person I love most. Wish I could’ve had the time to write a song about it._

His hands curl into fists off their own accord, his muscles contracting and seizing as the oxygen slowly runs out. It won’t be long until he’s gone. And then what? Then Geralt will continue to walk around with that bloody necklace around his neck. Will it make him into a hateful person, still? Will it make him kill everyone who has the misfortune of running into him? Or was it just Jaskier it was aimed against? Just the person Geralt loves most?

He figures it doesn’t matter anymore. He won’t know.

Something sharp presses against his palm, and he realizes that his hand has curled around one of the rocks lying on the shore of the lake. And suddenly, he knows exactly what to do.

He grasps the rock more tightly, and with his last remaining strength, he throws his arm towards Geralt – though he can’t really see, by now, his vision completely taken over by the black spots. He hits something hard and hears Geralt grunt, the grip around his throat loosening ever so tightly, and he gasps in whatever air his abused trachea can handle.

His vision clears long enough to see a few things – hints of the blue sky above him, crimson mixing with familiar, white strands, and a green, shining gem hanging from a leather cord.

He drops the rock in favour of reaching out and clutching the gem into his palm. He yanks as hard as he can, and with a wave of relief, he hears the cord snap, the thing suddenly in his hand. He drops it next to him, the last bit of his strength leaving him, going limp on the rocks, the pain from his wounds slowly overtaking him.

Bit by bit, his vision becomes clearer, the majority of the darkness fading away, and he sees Geralt, still sitting on top of him, his hands still around Jaskier’s throat, though no longer squeezing, a small trickle of blood running from his temple where Jaskier struck him with the rock.

Slowly, the sneer on his face melts away, replaced by confusion and blank emptiness, and Jaskier’s wildly thumping heart calms down a bit at the sight, careful hope lifting away the panic and dread.

Then, Geralt blinks, his eyes suddenly clear and confused and flitting from Jaskier’s face to his neck, where Geralt’s own hands are still wrapped around him, bruises probably already starting to form beneath his fingers.

“Jaskier?”

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow's prompt is: "Get it out"! If you want to be notified when tomorrow's fic goes up, don't hesitate to subscribe to the What a Wonderful World Series!
> 
> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan


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